The nation's literary heritage is gathering dust

The shabby treatment of these Australian treasures must end. Photo: iStockphoto.com

WE WOULD not, as a nation, allow the Sydney Opera House or Melbourne's Royal Exhibition Building to fall into decay and disrepair. The outcry would be deafening should we lose Phar Lap's heart or misplace Ned Kelly's armour, and an attempt to quarry Uluru would be met with violent opposition. We would be outraged if Picnic at Hanging Rock, Shine or Gallipoli were to disappear from both classrooms and the shelves of DVD stores, and art lovers would revolt if Tom Roberts or Sidney Nolan vanished from gallery walls. These are all Australian icons, cherished symbols of who and what we are, and to lose them would be unthinkable. So why then do we treat the literary equivalents of these treasures so shabbily?

As The Sunday Age reports today, 20 of the 53 books that won the Miles Franklin Award, Australia's most prestigious literary prize, are no longer in print. The list includes books by such important authors as Thomas Keneally and Thea Astley. Before Text Publishing released its series of 30 Australian classics last week, none of David Ireland's three winning novels was in print, nor indeed was My Brilliant Career, the most famous work of the author after whom the award was named.

Some may wonder if this even matters, and why we should care about books that aren't even popular enough to turn a profit for a publisher - after all, there are plenty of Australian authors who are in print and selling well. That argument, though, is akin to saying that since Gotye is on top of the charts, there's no need for Opera Australia. High art contributes to the richness and diversity of our culture, a fact recognised through public funding to arts bodies. Similarly, we acknowledge the importance of local voices telling local stories through the mandating of Australian content on our television screens. The same imperative should logically apply to literature.

While it is easy to deplore the forgetting of our classics, it is much harder to concoct a remedy. Even their champions admit that many of the books that have fallen out of print are difficult to read. Melbourne University Press chief executive Louise Adler recently decided to reissue the works of Christina Stead because she believed they were culturally important, but concedes that she doesn't ''imagine that you can reignite a popular interest in them''.

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Ms Adler, however, went on to say that ''in no other country would these canonical writers be allowed to go out of print'', and therein lies the rub. There is no formal Australian literary canon - a group of ''essential'' texts endorsed as culturally significant - and nor is there a body charged with protecting it if there was. Publishers cannot be expected to carry the financial burden of tending our heritage, and the Australia Council focuses on supporting current authors rather than preserving the works of past ones.

Schools and universities could play a part by setting Australian classics as required texts, but are wary of alienating students with obscure and difficult pieces. Adelaide academic Nicholas Jose says universities argue they don't teach local literature because there is little demand for it, which is what a climate scientist might call a positive feedback loop: the less we teach it, the less interest there will be, which in turn means we teach it even less.

Perhaps the first step should be to identify the books that are to be part of our canon. This would be a contentious process but also a stimulating one, and would be valuable in and of itself. A lively debate about the importance of an author is one sure way to get people to read their work. Such a debate would be an excellent starting point for a conversation about how to preserve this heritage. Perhaps we could see a copy of the chosen books in all public libraries, or more widely represented in English curriculums. But whatever the outcome of the discussion, we'd all be better for having it.